Movie Marathon
by Lunar Iris
Summary: What will come after days of movie watching for America and England? My collection of fics for the 2013 USUK Summer Camp, the plot blends from one fic to the next culminating in a grand adventure for America and England. Completed.
1. The Force is Not to be Taken Lightly

******Title: **The Force is Not to be Taken Lightly  
**Genre: **Humor, Romance  
**Warning: **Bad Humor?  
**Summary: **Alfred tries to get Arthur to admit his love for Star Wars  
**Theme: **Star Wars

* * *

**The Force is Not to be Taken Lightly**

"Ugh, Arie, get off. I'm gonna go get some more popcorn for the next movie." America pushed at England's shoulders, dislodging him from atop the younger nation's stomach and chest. He reluctantly scooted over to the other side of the sofa and watched him head into the kitchen.

"Grab something for me while you're up," he watched America move through the kitchen, collecting a new round of snacks for their ultimate do-nothing-movie marathon, as the idiotic nation called it.

"Sure thing!"

Arthur smiled when Alfred reached for the Cadbury chocolates and tossed them on the tray.

America jogged back to the coffee table to collect the remnants of their snacks from the previous movie before the popcorn finished popping. "Next Halloween we should totally have Star Wars themed costumes! Wouldn't that be so cool!"

"I am not going to parade around again as another science-fiction character. Those movies are ridiculous."

"Come on, man, you cannot deny the call! You love Star Wars."

"I do not." England shook his head, scoffing. "You and your idiotic movies."

"My idiotic movies?"

"Yes, your idiotic movies. George Lucas is one of your directors."

America gives him a raised eye-brow, the blue in his eyes suddenly so much brighter with unspoken mirth visible even from the sofa. "Yes. But, still, I know you well enough to know you are totally talking out of your ass when you say you don't like it."

"Talking out!" he huffs. "That is a very crude expression, Alfred. And, you don't know me nearly as well as you think."

"I know you well enough." He plops their snacks on the coffee table, pushing England's chocolates closer to him.

He leaves them on the table, glaring at them as though they have suddenly grown offensive. "Well, enough to know what?"

"To know that you loved my idea, that's what! And you love Star Wars!"

"You really are an idiot if you think that."

"I was watching you man! And, I could hear you quoting off lines during the movie."

England rolled his eyes. "Right. You're imagining things. I do not enjoy those space movies!"

"Are you kidding, it had you from the beginning!"

England scoffed, now staring down at the cream soda America brought him like it had betrayed him as well.

"Yeah, whatever. But you were all pouty-faced during the bar scene. And, I totally heard you say it!"

"And, I say you were hearing things."

"And! I know you were all stary-eyed at Obi-Wan."

"That's utter nonsense!"

"The old man! Hahaha!"

"Enough of this Alfred." He thwacks America upside his dense head.

"Oh, no. Not until you admit you love Star Wars just as much as I do."

"You and your stupid obsession with that stupid movie series."

"But you looove it."

"I don't."

"Yeah you do."

"No, I do not."

"Yes, you doooo."

"This is juvenile Alfred!"

"But you do. You do, and I can tell, because you're using lame insults."

"Enough!"

"Prove it then. I'll go as Princess Amidala if I'm wrong"

"You'll what?!" He huffs. "Whatever it takes. I will hold you to that."

"I'll ask a question, you just tell me what you think. Whatever comes to your mind first."

"All right. Let's just get this over with. I probably won't even be able to answer your questions."

"Where were the films shot?"

"Elstree Studios." He didn't even have to think about that one.

America's pointed finger came centimeters from his nose. "Only a real fan would know that."

"I know my own film history, Alfred."

"Alright. True enough. I'll give you that one, then. Hm. Who shot first?"

"Han," he said without hesitation.

"Ha! Another point for me."

"That doesn't prove anything either. It's as much popular culture and internet meme by now."

"Okay. Keep answering my questions?"

"Fine."

"Han Solo or Luke Skywalker?"

"Obi-Wan."

"Hahahahaha! 'Oh, help me Obi-Wan Kanobi, you're by only hope!'" Alfred mocked. "You're obsessed alright."

England rolled his eyes. "Going on."

"Fine. Okay let me think."

"Whatever."

"While I do. Why don't we put on Episode One," America said, a twinkle flicking in his eyes, as he leapt from the sofa to the DVD player and put in a new DVD.

"Are you insane?"

"It's great! What are you talking about?" He bounded back, causing both of them to bounce up on his landing.

"What a dolt."

Alfred smirk broadens. "Why would that make me a "dolt"?"

"The best of the films are the Original Series."

"Oooooh? Do tell?" He pauses the film on a blank screen before the menu even has a chance to come up.

"All those convoluted plot details and … ugh, Jar Jar Binks is a joke. He ruins the whole prequel series." He pushes the American's over-excited face out of his field of vision.

"How would you know, Arthur?"

"How would I know?" He gave America a good hard stare. "You dragged me to the theatre to watch all of them during their premieres."

"Well, I don't know Arthur, I guess I'm gonna have to let you win this one."

"Let me win? You never 'let' anyone win anything."

"Well you just have an answer or excuse or whatever for everything that I've asked you."

"I told you."

"Oh, and Arthur?" Alfred grinned wide like the Cheshire cat, just as frightening.

"Yes?"

"When I said it had you from the beginning, I was talking about when the first movie came out, A New Hope."

"What? That's preposterous."

"Then what are those picture doing up on your living room wall?"

Slowly, Arthur turns his head, following the line created by Alfred's pointed finger, and directs his eyes on the far wall. There staring at him in all his own fan-boy-ish splendor is a photograph of him with Alec Guinness, smiling and merry, hands clasped in a hearty handshake and other one of him in full young Obi-Wan Kanobe regalia, hair extension and light saber posed and smiling with Ewan McGregor.

"Hahaha! I love the look on your face, Artie! 'Oh, no, stuffy ol' me hates Star Wars!'" He mocked in a put on phoney British accent. "Hahahaha! I've been looking at that picture whole time. Oh, that was great! That was real fun, Artie. You're funny."

"You were just playing me that whole time? Why would you do that?"

His laughing faded slowly, and he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. "Wow, I laughed so hard my sides hurt."

Arthur looks away, cheeks burning. He blindly punches America in the arm.

"Ow!"

Suddenly an arm encircles his waist. "Hey now, Art. Don't be that way. It's alright. I just wanted to you admit it."

"You didn't have to do all that...that..."

"Awe, I'm sorry, Arthur," he pulls him into a tight embrace and kisses his cheek.

Arthur ducks away pushes the warm arms off of him.

"Don't be that like that." Alfred pouts.

He does not respond, looking down at the rug.

"Come on," Alfred grabs his hands. "I'm really sorry."

"There are more dignified ways to..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

"I said, I was sorry. I'll let you choose the next movie. Or I'll let you pick on one of my really geeky obsessions."

Arthur laughed, suddenly, loud and hearty. "What would be the use of that?"

"Huh?"

"You openly admit to all of yours."

"Heh, I guess you're right."

"That in itself is enough to tease you about."

"Nah, that wouldn't do any good either."

"Also true."

"So," America settled next to England, head resting on his shoulder and waited for him to wrap his arms around him.

England blew America's cowlick out of his eyes. "How about I let you pick the next movie instead."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, sure. Anything."

"Anything? Anything at all?"

"Ye-ep!"

He hummed, as he thinks over the movies that Alfred brought with him and those that he owns himself. "How about...'Empire Strikes Back'?"

"Sounds good to me," he reaches down to grab the remote control, where it had fallen.

"Alright, who's going to change the disk?" America made no move to get up. "Alfred...one of us has to go. So, either you let me up or get up yourself, either way you have to move."

Instead, he nuzzled his head against England's chest and fiddled with the remote. "No need."

In a moment, the film had started and the opening text crawled up the screen. "Alfred?" The disk he had put in the DVD player earlier was not Episode II. "Alfred?" He swallowed hard, looking down at America.

He grinned up at England, but quickly returned his gaze back to the film. "Shush, you're talking over one of the awesomest music score known to man."

"You're really something else. I don't know what. But you really are something else."

"Eh...I know."

"I love you, Alfred."

"Love you too, Arthur."

"Now, shush so we can watch the movie."

England shook his head and kissed the top of America's head.

* * *

When I finish, I'm going to edit all of the earlier chapters. The last several chapters are already edited. I published the first few as I was participating in the Summer Camp,. which turned out to be too much for me to keep up. So, I just had the originals over on my LJ where I put them up first.

For the record, here is a master list of movie themes with their chapter titles. There are two ways you can read this fic, and I won't tell you the correct way. How do you interpret it by the end? :)

Chapter 1: The Force is Not to be Taken Lightly - Star Wars  
Chapter 2: When There's Something Strange - Ghostbusters  
Chapter 3: Whoopsidaisies! - Notting Hill  
Chapter 4: Computer, define 'dancing' - WALL-E  
Chapter 5: Amity, means "friendship" - Jaws

Chapter 6: No Silver Medal For Finishing Second - Indiana Jones  
Chapter 7: Why Are We in Suits!? - Men in Black  
Chapter 8: Not What You Think - Mr. and Mrs. Smith  
Chapter 9: My History is History - Back to the Future  
Chapter 10: Because of the Butterfly Effect - Jurassic Park  
Chapter 11: That's Sticky Business - Harry Potter  
Chapter 12: Nobody Ties Baby in the Corner - Dirty Dancing  
Chapter 13: Not All Treasure is Silver and Gold - Pirates of the Caribbean  
Chapter 14: It's The Cape That Makes it Great - The Avengers


	2. When There's Something Strange

**This must be the shortest thing I've ever written. Ever. O_O**

**This is for Day Two of the 2013 USUK Summer Camp**

* * *

**When There's Something Strange**

And the pale-green light follows him, slowly glimmering and pulsating, casting the room in a phosphorescent glow. He runs into the first room he comes to, flattening himself against inside of the door frame. The wood flooring gives and flexes with tiny squeals even though the ghost drifts a few feet above the floor; he can hear it above his rough panting. His breath catches in his throat when the squealing stops.

Where to go now?

He looks around. He had closed himself up in the hall washroom.

Trapped! No where to go!

He backs himself against the sink, staring at the closed door. The room turns icy cold, and then a shimmering blue hand reaches through the wood, fingers stretching, grasping toward him.

America screams and awakens panting.

Shadows writhe and swirl through the living room; the white light reaches toward him in his blanket nest on the sofa.

_Scritch. Scritch. Scratch. Scritch. Scritch. Scratch._

_Squeak._

He cuddles closer within though he shivers in a cold sweat, pulling the interior most blanket over his head.

America screams again.

_Thud. Squeak. Thud. Squeak. Thud. Squeak. Thud. Squeak. Squeak._

Suddenly, he is enfolded from outside the blanket—cannot move. He thrashes about trying to dislodge himself from both the blanket cocoon and the vice grip.

"Get offa me! Get off. Get off. Get off. I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die!"

"Alfred! Stop this!" The vice-grip is arms.

He continues to trash. "Aaaah! It knows my name! Noooooo! I don't wanna die or serve as your vessel for evil! I'm a hero! I'm a hero! Lemme go! Lemme gooo!" He tries to curl in on himself, but the arms flight against him, harder and more insistent.

Then the world is revealed to him once more, and before him stands England, bleary eyes heavy with sleep, messy hair, bed tousled.

"Yeah, sure," England huffs, "hero."

"England!" America blinks, still panting.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" His voice is sluggish from awakening from a deep sleep and harsh from frustration.

"There was this blue light. And, and." His eyes dart around the room. "And it was following me around your house. And, and." He hugs himself. "And, I tried to hid. But it reached for me. And then there was all these noises and stuff scratching and whistling and stuff. And it was after me. It's after me! A ghooooost! And it tried to grab it. It's gonna get meeee!" He sniffles. "But come in here, Arthur." He lifts up a corner of the blanket, I'll protect you." He looks up with wide, eyes, trying and hoping, to keep his lower lip from quivering.

England huffs again and plops down on the couch next to him, easing America against his chest. "Oh dear, It was just a bad dream. That's all." He hugs the younger nation, rubbing his back to ease his ragged panting. "It's okay, Alfie. I'm here. We'll stay here, like this, for the rest of the night. My back will ache in the morning, but we'll stay just like this. How about that?"

"Okay," America takes a deep breath. "Stay here just like this."

"Yes."

"And I'll protect you."

"Right, you'll protect me."

"Hero's promise."

"Sure, hero," England says as he wipes his thumbs to dry the dampness on America's cheeks.

"Ghostbusters, Alfred? Seriously? It's a comedy. It's supposed to be funny."

"Shuddup," he mutters to England's shoulder, and yawns.

"That's, it," he sighs and strokes America's hair. "No more ghost or scary movies of _any_ kind after dark."

* * *

**Bonus Alternate Ending:**

Alfred huffs, but agrees—for now. He hugs Arthur tightly. "But, oh my god, Arthur, please do not scare me like that again."

Arthur smiles, and his eyes glow bright green, luminous in the dark room. "Of course not, my dearest minion."

Alfred awakens screaming. Again.

"Alfred!" Arthur starts awake, nearly toppling Alfred from his perch atop him on the sofa.

"Ahhhh n-nothing! Nothing!" He takes a deep breath. "Got tangled in the blanket. Go back to sleep Arthur."

Arthur huffs and settles back against the sofa cushions. He pets Alfred's hair until he is sure that the other nation has fallen asleep.

And then, he smiles, eyes a glimmering green, laughing quietly in the dark.

* * *

**I'm going back to clean this up later. But if you find anything alarming that I need to fix please let me know. Thanks!**


	3. Whoopsidaisies!

**Whoopsidaisies! **

"Why do you hate my movie choices?!" America whines, draping his upper body across England's lap dramatically, letting his arms hang akimbo over the back and side of the sofa.

"I don't hate all your movie choices. I would appreciate you not putting words in my mouth. Thank you very much, Alfred." He hefts the larger nation up and off of him and deposits him—none too gently—on the other side of the sofa where the other nation flops down and remains. "But, now, if you don't mind, I think it is my turn to choose the next film we watch. What do you say?" He stares down the end of his nose at the American—still partially upside down, legs danging over the edges in danger of toppling.

America whinges like a spoiled child, which he is, in many ways. Today, however, England intents to reign triumphant. His stare lingers, intent on penetrating those bright, prideful eyes until they blink.

America looks away first, with a labored exhale. "But, you'll pick something really lame," he protests.

"Oh grow up," England says as he pushes himself from the sofa and ambles toward his DVD collection. "Besides, I'm tried of science-fiction."

"There's nothing wrong with a good ol' SF flick!" America squeals. It is hard to take him seriously when he is still draped across the sofa.

"I didn't say that either. I told you to stop putting words in my mouth." His eyes tarry on his small selections of romantic comedies. Any of those would be a nice chance of pace. "Besides," he sighs, "we watched science-fiction all day yesterday. It's time for a change. I thought you loved variety?" He smirks at America, knowing he found a soft spot.

"Eeeh," America wails and finally rights himself. "Fine."

"Thank you," England intones. "Now why don."

"Just don't pick some dumb, cerebral British comedy that I have to think about too much."

"Alfred," he glares back at the American again. "My comedies are not dumb. Those who cannot grasp the humor behind them, however, are. Now, why don't you just go get us something to eat and I'll pick out the film. Shoo." He dismisses the younger nation to the kitchen with a condescending wave of his hands.

"Ugh, fine," he whines again and shuffles off to the kitchen while England makes his decision.

After all the light saber slashing, positron collider beaming, fighting, ghosting and space traveling, it's time for a drastic change of pace. And, perhaps, maybe, no bad dreams tonight. Who knows.

He knows just the film he wants to see, pulls it from the shelf, sets it up in the DVD player, stops it at a black screen and waits. Still waits for their food.

It takes America much longer than he expected with the food, and some fantastic smells emanate from his kitchen.

"Alfred?" he calls, almost ventures into the kitchen himself to see what's taking the American so long. Probably getting enough food to fill his endless pit of a stomach; he ponders if that can even be accomplished when the nation emerges with two trays piled high with food and juice glasses.

"Here let me help," England rises from the sofa to take one of the trays.

"No, no," America laughs, "I've got it. Just sit."

Still, England reaches out for one of them. "It's really no trouble, Alfred. Here." He reaches out for a tray as America lowers them to the table.

Their arms collide and one of the juice glasses pitches to the side. England attempts to counterbalance the glass and tray to minimize the potential catastrophe. America stabilizes the other trays.

"Ack!" England exclaims; receives a chilly shower of orange juice across the front of his shirt for his trouble, but saves his flooring and the food on the plate.

"Well that was a close one," America chuckles nervously.

"A bit unsuccessful though." He looks down at his shirt and they both set the try down on the coffe table. "I'll have to change."

"Hm, at least we saved the food, right?"

"Right," he groaned, becoming colder by the second as it soaked through his shirt to his skin. "Be right back. I'm going to change."

"Alright, I'll get you some fresh juice," America takes the glass and dashes back to the kitchen.

"Yes," just as he turns to retreat to clean himself, he glances down at the table to see what it is that America made for their breakfast. The very tall stacks chocolate chip pancakes remain in his mind has he puts on a fresh shirt. A breakfast that was planned in advance. Very thoughtful.

"All better," he announces his return, sitting next to America on the sofa. "I hope breakfast didn't get cold."

"Nope," America exclaims snatching up the remote control, starting the movie. They both dig into their breakfasts.

"Haha! It was all ready to go."

"Ah, yes!" England laughs. "While you took your time in the kitchen," he gives America's side a playful little poke with his elbow. "I took the liberty to..."

"England?" America voice seems stifled as though he is in a daze.

He snorts as he realizes what has America red in the face from trying to hold in his laughter.

"Geez, man. I shoulda figured you'd've picked this movie!" He laughed, but instead of uninhibited glee, it was speculative. He gave England a side-long glance, eyes wide with bewilderment, "But, why'd you want to act out a scene?"

"I..." he blinked. "What?" And, then it occurs to him, and he has merely to wait for the inevitable collision between the main characters. "Well, bugger me," he breathed.

"Now, I know I like 'Notting Hill' and all, but I had no idea you liked it _that_ much."

And, suddenly, as Anna and Will cross paths, and the fainted glass of orange juice is spilled, the two nations burst out laughing at that scene as they never have before, until they are winded and grasping t stay upright.

England manages to compose himself first. "This scene will never be the same again."

"Agreed." America grins, and they resume their breakfast.


	4. Computer, define 'dancing'

**Title:** **Computer, define 'dancing'**  
**Genre:** Fluff, Friendship  
**Word count:** 860  
**Rating/Warning: **Mild, K/K+ - some name calling  
**Summary:** Arthur realizes that he and Alfred have been sitting around and snacking for far too long.

* * *

How long have I sat here on the sofa like this? Back reclining against the cushions, legs dangling akimbo, head lazing away the day. Is this what relaxing is? It has been so long that I can hardly recall the sensation of just doing...of just doing nothing. It is rather enjoyable, I admit, but I will never do so aloud.

For days now, we've done absolutely and completely nothing.

Well, that's not entirely true. We've watched plenty of films. We've slept. We've eaten.

Oh, dear lord, how we have eaten: snacks with every movie, a movie during all of our meals. I'll go to get something, and then later Alfred will get something. Each we will each ask the other if he wants anything while we are up, and undoubtedly, without thinking much about it, the answer is a quick, "yes." At least, so far, I've managed to keep Alfred away from driving down to the nearest fast food joint for a quick burger fix. There was a reason I supplied my house with enough food to feed a small army for two weeks.

The joke is partially on me. What is the joke? He hasn't complained. Well, he hasn't complained _much_.

We've argued plenty: over films, over who's fallen asleep on whom, over what we're to eat and how to prepare it. For the sake of ease, I think Alfred has permanently took over the snacks-that-need-to-be-heated, with exception of my tea, because he rarely brews it correctly.

I do not know if I can continue on this way. How long can a person last without some physical exercise.

Oh, of course, Alfred assures me that we are in no danger of obesity. We are nations after all. He does have a point there. But, I have seen the way that boy eats when he's stressed and cannot get out to stretch his legs. His waist becomes just as comfortable as a teddy bears, just as squishy, too.

I do not want to get that way. It is just so hard to move. I think that last bowl of popcorn and chocolates did me in.

I squirm on the couch, cracking my back and stretching my legs.

Oh! We've slept through much of the latest movie of our marathon, WALL-E. Rather cute for an animated feature, but not enough to capture my or Alfred's attention with full bellies. I'm not even sure that I remember how we settled on it in the first place. Perhaps, it was a sleepy compromise.

I long to move!

Even those android-robot-things are flying about the screen, and the look rather content doing their little dance. How sweet.

I stretch my legs again, relishing in the pull and faint burn of under-used muscles.

"Mmph!" Alfred stirs. I must have nudged him with my legs. He yawns, and, as yawns are always contagious, so do I.

"Ugh," I groan in protest to my joints as I rise. "Come on," I nudge Alfred. "We need to get up and...and _do_ something. Anything. Come on."

"Dun wanna," he mumbles and hides his head

"Alfreeeed," why did I suddenly deem it appropriate to resort to begging? "We need to do something. I know you're tired of laying here, too, just...just doing...nothing. Come on, if we don't get up we're going to look like them, soon." I point to the chubby humans in the film.

"Eh, you exaggerate," he wiggles his bottom firmly against the cushions; he has no intention to rise on his own. Fine.

"And even two of those people decided to get a little exercise. Come on," I finally pull and lift myself from the sofa and reach down to assist Alfred. I grab his hands and heft him up with a grunt.

He flaps around a bit and falls against me. We stumble a few steps. In our attempt to narrowly escape the coffee table with swirl around and cling to each other just as a song plays in the movie. Alfred, complete dolt that he is, gets me in hold and twirls me about and back again in an impromptu dance, and pulls me against him, laughing all the while.

"Stop that, you bugger," I step away from him with a roll of my eyes.

"Well, it was your idea to get up and your idea to just yank me from the sofa. So, I say, it's all your fault anyway. Hah!"

"Oh, belt up, you."

"I thought you wanted to get some exercise?" He smirks at me.

"I still do."

"Well then, 'ol man," his smirk broadens. He proceeds to sing, loudly."Put on your Sunday clothes, there's lots of world out there..."

I stop him before he can continue, though he has a very nice tenor voice. "Enough, enough, let's just take a walk."

"Okay," he laughs and turns off the movie. "It was so near the end too."

"Eh, we can pick it back up when we come back in. What do you say?"

"After you, sir."

I wait at the front door for him, and then we walk out into a sunny mid-morning. The breeze is nice. And, so is the company.

* * *

I'm starting to wonder how long I can keep this theme up with the movie prompts. This one was a challenge.


	5. Amity, means friendship

**Title: Amity, means "friendship".  
Genre: **Humor, Friendship**  
Word count: 800  
Rating/Warning: Mild, K/K+ - some name calling  
Summary: **Arthur fusses at Alfred for pulling ill-thought out movie inspired antics.

* * *

America creeps along a section of shrubbery where England cannot see. "Da-dum." But, he can certainly hear him.

"Shut it, Alfred!" England knows he is there, and America is aware that he knows this, but it doesn't seem to matter. It hasn't all day.

"Da-dum," America sings again, proving that the first several times he tortured England with this nonsensical farce were not enough to satisfy his childish sensibilities.

"I'm serious!" he growls, and continues to dry his back and then rub the excess water from his hair, wondering how he can best thwart the grand annoyance. For now, he refuses to allow the cretin the privilege of turning in his direction.

"Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum," Alfred's singing gradually increases in volume.

"Enough already! This is the twentieth time!"

After the squeak of shoes against the deck tiles, he knows America is still undeterred, and approaches, much to the dismay of England's dignity. At least no one else is around. "Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, dadadum!"

Oh, god, make it stop. But, no, He won't. Because he has the power to just shut his ears to the man-child's infernal chanting of that bloody awful melody. "This is asinine." He brandishes his wet towel, coiling it tight, and flicks it at the younger nation's bare back.

"Ow! Oh, come on, Arthur, it's a classic movie theme."

"It's not the song, though it is terrible the way you hammer it into monotony. The problem is you!" his pointed finger jabs America in the chest.

"Stop that." He brushes the finger away. "How am I the problem?"

"You cannot leave anything alone. You're just like that damned shark you keep trying to imitate and drive me insane. You're not dragging me down to your level."

"I'm just playing. Come on, Artie."

"Do not call me that."

"Fine, Arthur. Fine," America sighs. "I'm just trying to have fun. Can't we have fun?"

He knows there is no reasoning with America. He just turns away pulls on a tee-shirt and stomps away in the direction of the house. "I've had enough of your kind of fun."

"What? Don't be a stick in the mud."

"I don't have to take this abuse." He pauses, giving America a good hard stare, appraising, assessing, waiting. "Uh, moron," he sighs. "You're going to be that way about it? Then you can finish your marathon alone. Take all your films and leave." England turns to stomp back to house only to be snagged back by the sleeve of his shirt.

"Sorry, man," America's phony, self-important grin has faded, and appears to be crestfallen.

"Let me go." England stares down at the hands that restrain him. He twists at the shoulder to withdraw and backs up a few paces so there is space between them.

"Wait, please. At least let me apologize," his antagonizing smile still has not returned.

England nods, deciding he is willing to listen after all.

"Look, hey, man..." he rubs at the back of his neck.

"Go on," England urges.

"Look, you know me," he begins again.

England smirks. "Yes, I dare say I do."

"Shush, now. I'm trying. I just...get a little rough sometimes. Caught up with...I don't know. And, I don't think." He quickly raises his hands to halt the jibe that England had planned next, during his pause. "Sometimes, you don't either." He points. "But, the thing is, you're my friend, first and foremost. And, I enjoy our time together. And, before you say it, I'm getting to the point."

England raises his eye brows at that.

"Yes, I have a point. I was just playing and I lost track of what I was doing."

"You tackled me into the pool, Alfred."

"Yeah," he grimaces, "and I'm really, really sorry about it."

England huffs out a long held lungful of air. "You were pretending to be a shark in the middle of attack. That's juvenile."

America shrugged. "Well, that's what I am. You've said it enough. Geez, I'll say it again. I'm sorry about the half-drowning you thing. I got caught up in the hype of watching that dorky movie again."

"Yes, we still have our amity." And, suddenly, his mind processed America's last comment, his anger faded. He laughed. "You're right! It is a dorky movie." He doubles over at the startled look on the other nation's face. "That shark doesn't even look real."

"Haha!" America grinned anew. "You're so right."

"You'd think they could have tried a little harder, right?"

"Totally," he pauses. "But...you forgive me, right?"

"Yes, Alfred. I forgive you. Amity, as you know, means 'friendship'."

America grins.

England supposes that all is right with their world for a little while longer. Until the next time America decides to act out the next fool idea that pops into that crazy brain of his.

* * *

This one as the hardest yet. This day's theme was "Jaws" and I am terrified of sharks. I don't like this movie. Someone comfort me, please.


	6. No Silver Medal for Finishing Second

**Okay, um, sorry for taking so long, even though I have been keeping up with the fics for the Summer Camp themes and have submitted one each day. It was pretty late when I did, and had to get to bed before I could post them here, because I've been getting migraines during the day from staying up too late at night. I used to do that all the time. Not as young as I used to be, I guess. **

**Here's the thing, the first 5 days were pretty light and those all went together. The next (the rest of) the ficlets in this series take a very different route (a darker one), and I'm not sure what I do. I want to keep them all together, for the sake of keeping them all together. But, at this point, the story is very, very different, to the point that I could make this an entirely separate fic, and I could kick myself for not planning thing any better than I did. Anyway...I'll continue this author's note at the end of this "chapter" because I don't want to spoil anything.**

* * *

**Title ****No Silver Medal For Finishing Second  
Genre: **Adventure  
**Word Count**: 1023  
**Rating/Warning: **Some language/cursing  
**Summary: **Mysterious phone calls send America and England off on an adventure.  
**Movie Theme**: Indiana Jones

**Note**: Sorry if anything is strange; this idea came to me suddenly. And, I wrote as quickly as I could so I could capture it, lest it be lost and cause every word I write to be filled with even more nonsense.

* * *

England is startled out of his sleepy doze by the incessant ringing of America's cellphone. "Alfred," he mumbles, nudging the other nation in the side to get his attention. "Alfred, answer your bloody phone. That's the fourth time it's gone off."

Finally, after a couple more jabs to his side, and the fifth phone call, America rises and stalks off to another room with his mobile phone, muttering explicatives about his boss and government officials.

While he is gone, Arthur sits up and stretches. A call from one of their bosses usually signifies the end to their lazy days for the foreseeable future.

"Sorry, Arthur." Alfred returnes to the room, wearing a frown. "I gotta go home today. There's even a ticket waiting for me at the airport. Something's come up. I've been given a project and I gotta start on it right away. Damn it all." He starts up the stairs talking a mile a minute, astounding England anew at his ability to talk so quickly and so long about absolutely nothing. Or, at least, it is nothing that makes sense, because he is uttering absurdities about undoing years of work and having to start over from the beginning.

Now, the two nations are used to staying close lipped national secrets and maintaining the integrity of the security of their respective states, but America's sense of urgency seems practically fanatic. And, he had that gleam in the corner of his right eye that meant he was usually up to no good. England shakes his head. That cannot be, because America does not become over-excited about his work. America would rant and rave and beg his boss to extend his vacation just a few days longer.

England scratches his head.

In the time it took him to wander up stairs just to ask if everything is okay, America had his luggage packed and is in mid-turn to leave the room.

"Sorry, Arthur," he says again, eyes darting this way and that way with excitement, as he grabs his bags and balances them all in his arms, shouldering his way past England to bound back down the stairs. "We'll have to finish catching up next time."

"Well, that's fine, Alfred, I understand. Work is work." He follows him down to the ground level. "Do you need a ride to the airport?"

"Nope," America replies, peeking out one of the front windows. Just then wheels squeak on asphalt and a car door opens and closes. "My boss already had a cab sent for me. And, it's here already."

"It must be a very important project, indeed."

"Yeah, I'm not sure what it's all about yet, but my boss really insisted that I go back right away."

England suspects that might not be altogether true, but there would be no use in calling the American out on that falsehood, for he would have done the same if their positions were swapped.

"Well, then," he sighs. "Have a safe trip, Alfred. Sorry we didn't get to finish all the movies you lanned."

"Yeah, I know." He laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Keep them for now, we can get to them if I come back."

"Certainly Alfred." England smiles. "Later then."

"See ya, Arthur. Don't do anything to get your joints all stiff. Haha!" And, with that he dashes out the door, leaving England to stew at the playful insult. Though, still, an insult is an insult. "Damnable idiot, calling me old."

Some time later, a couple hours after America's hasty departure, he sits down with a cup of tea, and pauses, mid-sip. Something occurs to him in that moment. Something strange and ominous. Something that America said when he left. He had not said "when" I come back; he had said "if."

What the hell kind of project is he doing that he might not return? His eyes widen.

Before he can think about it much more, England's own cell phone rings. He is elbow deep in soapy dish water. It is from his secretary. He dries his hands quickly and grapples with his phone to answer the call before it is sent to voice mail.

"H-hello?" he asks hesitantly, still shaken from his recent realization about America.

"Arthur, is everything okay?" his secretary inquires after his stuttered greeting.

"Ah, yes. Yes, I'm fine, Bartholomew. What is it?"

"Whatever you're doing, stop."

His mouth gapes open, and he is glad that his secretary cannot see that through the phone. "What?"

"I'll get to the point. You are needed for a mission."

"A mission? I haven't been sent on a real one in years. What's going on." This is an uncanny coincidence.

"Pack your bags. A car is being sent for you. It will arrive in a few more minutes. You have a plane to catch. You'll be briefed on the way to the airport."

"No! Wait!" He is flustered and this cannot continue. "What is this about? I'm not going anywhere until you tell me something."

"The phone really isn't the right time for this discussion, Arthur."

"At least tell me something," he says as he grabs his luggage and begins to fill it with practiced swiftness.

"Fine," Bartholomew sighs into the phone. "You're going to Bermuda. There is a device positioned somewhere near the archipelago or surrounding seas that works with the natural and supernatural forces of the Bermuda Triangle that allows for objects to travel through time. We need to get to whatever object this is, before it falls into the hands of, um, let us say an undesirable nation."

"Good job, Bartholomew," he chuckles and closes his suitcase. "Now tell me the real story."

"Just get in the car, go to the airport, and await your orders. We are in a race, Mr. Kirkland. Luck to you," and with that, Bartholomew ends the call. As he pockets his phone, a car pulls up next to his house. Well, this is the only way to get his questions answered. So, England snatches up his keys, locks up and dashes toward his ride.

He just hopes Alfred is faring better with his own government.

* * *

******I might put a note about there being two different fics in one in the description/summary. I don't know. Really, I have a very different story from here on out folks, I cannot stress that enough. It's kinda angsty, and involves time travel and changing history. Yeah. I'll need to adjust things before I put them on this site, because I had to do a bit of sacrificing for the same of the day's theme. I've edited this one, but probably not enough. I'll need to go back when I get all the themes finished and figure things out again from there. I hope things aren't too bizarre and that someone will tell me if they are, so I can fix them.**

******Thanks for reading!  
**


	7. Why Are We in Suits?

**Title**: Why Are We in Suits!?  
**Genre**: Adventure  
**Words**: 627  
**Rating/Warning:** K+/T, some cursing, just a little, and brief gun fire.  
**Summary: **Continuation from "No Silver Medal for Finishing Second," in which America realizes that some places are too hot for suits, but he never is.

**Theme**: Men in Black

* * *

America huffs and loosens his tie. It had been a while since his last genuine mission. The past couple decades had been filled primarily with various meetings and paperwork, and had not realized how much he became accustomed to pushing papers. He cringes, ugh...he had become a paper pusher.

He is just thankful that his boss had managed to get him permission to include Baby-Vette* among the plane's cargo. God bless air-conditioning. Though, really, he was thankful this mission wasn't anything anything Indiana Jones had to go through in the heat of the Mid-West or the Sahara; this was a humid heat that pressed in and squeezed the sweat out of his pores.

This whole mission felt different, bizarre, uncomfortable. He had not liked leaving England just like that in the middle of their rare shared vacation time. He had not liked the haste with which he had to leave. He does not like the fact that he is standing in the middle of one of England territories at the behest of his boss without England's permission to go on what is probably a wild goose chase.

Still, his search must continue, however stupid it seems. America would be the first to admit his love of archeology as much as that movie hero who was named after him—so he likes to think. But, this is absurd. How he is on the hunt for some sort of time box, hidden in the Bermuda archipelago. And, he wonders, does his boss even realize there are dozens of islands where this thing can be located.

Ugh...and why did he wear a suit? Because he had to take a flight to this damn island and book a room and interact with people, and, most importantly, he looks damn good in a suit. But, oh boy is it hot.

He huffs again, and reluctantly gets out of his car; it is hot, even though he parked her in the shade.

America surveys the landscape, wondering across it scanning the beautiful vistas before him in his search: rocks, palm trees, grass and sand, lots and lots of sand, and a cave just to his back.

Supposedly, somewhere within some random outcropping of rocks could be this time stone thing. Ooooh. And it powers the Bermuda Triangle? Or does the Bermuda Triangle power it? He glances around. Right... However this thing worked—America reasoned it out on the plane ride—it is erratic at best. But, it is his task to look for it, maybe take it—his boss was rather vague on that point—and make sure it is secured. Secured how? Can he even take it off the island?

He will figure that out when the time came. For now, he will start his search with the cave. It is cool there, he can feel it from several feet outside.

America hears a twig snap behind him; he pauses, whips out his gun and aims out into the glare of the sun. "Stop right there." He recognizes that dapper accent. In the same span of time he has this thought, he hears the removal of a gun's safety, and ducks to the side, behind a rock just as the shot pierces a tree approximately where his head was a moment ago.

He steps out of the shadows, gun at the ready, aimed in the direction of that voice.

"Alfred?" England holds tighter to his gun, Alfred can tell even from that distance the surprise is mutual, even though he can't tell where the other nation is looking, because of his sunglasses. But, England looks as dapper as he sounds, because, much to America's amusement and perverse relief, he is wearing a suit as well: black and sleek. He takes a moment to pout—internally—over the fact that England looks better in his black suit than he does in his own, despite that fact that, with their sunglasses on, they could be Matching Suits to anyone else looking on. Thankfully there is no one else to witness.


	8. Not What You Think

**Title**: Not What You Think

**Genre: **Adventure

**Words: **1670 (1718, edited)

**Rating/Warning**: Some swearing and mentions of violence (not described in detail)

**Summary**: Alfred and Arthur try to one up each other since they are both after the same artifact. Who will put a stop to the nonsense first?

**Theme** Mr. and Mrs. Smith, friends fighting instead of husband/wife.

**Note: **Sorry. I'm working with a complicated plot line (for the Summer Camp themes) that I will probably expand later. It's all designed to be parody anyway, though. I don't know what I thought I had to connect all the themes into a cohesive plot line, as that was not my original intention.

* * *

"Arthur?" America smiles, nervous about seeing England here. He figured that the UK would send someone here to thwart his silly attempt to secure the time-thingy; he should have known that if the USA sent their personal representative that the UK would send theirs as well. "I mean no harm." Stupid! What kind of lame response was that?

"What are you doing here?" England asks. They both shift closer, still alert, their guns raised.

He grins sheepishly. "Uh, admiring the scenery?"

"Wrong answer," England says and shots again, and America just has time to duck out of the way.

"Not cool, man!" America protests, because that was mostly true. "I kinda was."

"Tell me the truth or I shot," England growls back. Alfred knew that he wasn't kidding, when it came to work, England rarely joked; actually, if Alfred decided to be honest with himself, England rarely joked. At all.

"My boss sent me, but I don't want to cause trouble," Alfred gives thought to proving his willingness help England in whatever it is he needs to do with the artifact (by technicality, it is on British soil), and that he means no harm by the intrusion. He is too slow.

"Even if you are on a mission," Arthur disrupts his thoughts, "you cause trouble wherever you go."

"That's not true and you know it."

"Collateral damage is a tag in your file. And you've a history for snagging things just as I have. You're not going anywhere." He shoots again.

Alfred decides it's high time to high tail it back to his car. So, he runs, dodging Arthur's bullets. "Enough, Arthur!"

"Alfred, stop!"

"Not on your life, now!" Alfred yells as he shoots behind him, before he reaches Baby-Vette; England will not shoot his car; he is sure. He hopes.

America then notices The Motorcycle, The Lightning, hidden in high grown underbrush between a couple palm trees. England had been there all along? For how long? Sure, he would have been. America isn't sure how he got there so much faster, doesn't have time to wonder about it with the other nation shooting at him. So, he does the only thing he can think of, since he doesn't want to damage England's ol' BSA Lightning*—he would be killed over that—, and he isn't exactly in the mood for a chase. He shoots the palm tree several times at just the point where it will fall against the other palm. England will have to put in a lot of muscle and elbow grease to get it out, and America will be long gone when he manages it.

England gets in a few shots that narrowly miss as he speeds away.

* * *

They meet again like in similar fashion several other times, day after day, for almost a week, before America throws his hands up in frustration.

England tries to stab him through his doughnut one morning. So, America shoots his tea cup.

England booby traps his room. So, America cherry bombs his toilet.

England shoots holes in his boat as he goes to search one of the islands. So, America causes a ferry to take off with The Lightning, leaving him stranded.

He cannot shoot at England, because he agrees that he shouldn't be here or after that stupid artifact. Will England let him explain that and try to cooperate? Noooo, of course not. So, America is stuck in this Catch 22, playing chicken with real guns at his best friend. He curses his luck.

This has to come to an end at some point or other. Finally, America decides that he needs to get out the big guns.

* * *

Late in the night, at around oh-dark-thirty when he is sure most of the town is fast asleep, he puts his plan into action. With a heavy duffel bag slung over one shoulder (kept close to his body, the contents muffled by a couple old tee-shirts) and comfortable, practicable clothes, he slips out of his hotel, following the GPS signal he had rigged on England's bike earlier in the week. It rests in an alleyway a couple blocks away.

By the light of his cell phone and the quarter moon, he rigs up wires and fittings and gears and timers. Such circuitry is more complicated than anyone's business, but to him, this is child's play, and he ties it all in together with the bike's own gadgetry. When he is finished he sits back a few seconds to admire his own artistry. A work of beauty. And then, he takes off into the night.

* * *

America awakens in the morning, excited and giddy. He cannot say that he feels refreshed, because he was up half the night playing half-mechanic and half-mad-genius. But, that's the price to pay for scary contraptions. He could savor his work all day long, but he had things to do, places to go, a person to met for breakfast.

He makes himself at home at a window table overlooking the street. England had received his text some time during the wee hours of the morning. He didn't respond to it until twenty minutes ago—telling him to stick his invitation somewhere "where the sun does not shine," so Arthur texted.

Now all America must to do is wait. He is not good at waiting, so he orders coffee and a doughnut, and some tea and a crumpet for Arthur; he'll need it by the time he gets to the hotel restaurant.

He hears the beep of his phone shortly after the waitress goes to get his order. Arthur is on the move. America brings up a program on his phone and watches in glee as the little green blip of England's bike suddenly does a U-turn. His fingers dance across the touchscreen, and he grins.

In a rather shaky line, the Lightning speeds toward Alfred's hotel, toward his window. And there the older nation is, glaring daggers at America through the dark tinting of his shades. It is even worse when he takes off the shades and motorcycle helmet. The anger radiates through the wall.

"What the bloody hell have you done to my bike, Alfred?" he screams, and America can hear him quite well even through the window.

He shrugs, but the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth cannot be coaxed down so easily. He clicks a few buttons on his phone and watches as Arthur slowly looks down at his bike. Finally, he lets the smirk take over his face and moves away from the window, very quickly, and heads toward the restaurant's terrace to watch the reaction.

"You wouldn't!?" Arthur screeches, frantic and shocked.

Alfred watches him from the terrace, motioning his waitress to wait at his previous table. "Back in just a moment, sweetie," he reassures her and takes a seat on the wooden railing.

Arthur is bent down to the ground, and staring at the little device all connected and integrated into the working of his motorcycle. It appears as any normal time triggered automatic bomb would: wires tight and digital display counting down. Alfred glances down at his watch. At this point, Arthur will have fifteen seconds. He glaces, very briefly, up at the restaurant window with wide eyes and swallows hard. His fingers breeze over the wires and connections. America knows that none of the connections will make any sense for someone trying to defuse a bomb. He watches the desperation build, and finally, in the last five seconds, England runs, abandoning his dear Lightning to its fate.

Alfred grins wider when Arthur slowly rises from his crouch in the shelter of a bush, and holds his breath as the other nation pulls his phone from his pocket in confusion.

He walks back to his bike, which is still all in one piece and peers at the display screen that had previously displayed the countdown clock.

In order to beckon the waitress to bring his and England's drinks, he takes his eyes away from the Englishman for a moment. He doesn't need to watch him approach, he can hear the protests and insults increase in volume as Arthur moves nearer.

"Good morning, Arthur," America takes a sip of his coffee. "Join me, why don't you. Have some tea. Calm down."

"Calm down?" England huffs."Calm down! Take that bloody contraption off my bike, and I might consider not breaking all your limps, and just settle for fingers."

"Whoa, now. Chill. I come in peace."

"I seriously doubt that, after the stunt you pulled with my motorcycle. How did you do it? What the hell did you even do anyway? Bikes can't drive themselves."

"For right now, yours can." He hums in thought. "Well, only if someone with really good balance is riding it, but that's beside the point. Anyway." He gestures to the seat across from him. "Sit, we need to talk."

England sits and takes a sip of the tea, despite his ire." What do you want? And, what do you know?"

"That I want to help you, despite whatever mission it is that my boss thinks I should do."

"Again, what do you know?" England repeats.

"Not a hell of a lot. What the hell is the thing we're after? And, please tell me, it's not what I think it is."

England regards him carefully for a moment. "You want to side with me?"

"Yeah. That shouldn't come as any big surprise."

"Why?"

"I think we'd do a better job taking care of what needs to be taken care of with the two of us on the same side rather than on opposite sides. Business as usual. It's stupid for us to be fighting each other."

England nods. "The wording is confusing, but I concur with that. I certainly cannot argue against it."

"Our bosses are insane."

England laughs, loud and hearty. "I cannot argue with that either."

"I mean, a time-travel-device thingy that uses the Bermuda Triangle..." he begins and laughs.

"It's not actually as far-fetched as you think. And, I'm sure you've read the vague intel that someone or other wants to use it."

"Right. But, why would they?"

"Why wouldn't they, Alfred? Why wouldn't they want to -" and England was cut off by the sudden absence of all sound.

* * *

**A/N** The BSA Lightning is featured in the James Bond film Thunderball, though Bond is not the one driving it. There is also one in the British TV series Boon, which I did not realize before I wrote this and discovered while trying to find a picture reference for from the film. It is a beautiful bike. And I salivate at the thought of England riding a motorcycle.

Sorry for the lateness in updating, I had to take my laptop to the repair shop. It's an old beast, 6 years old, to be exact. I'm glad I had my work backed up. If anyone ever wants to know what's keeping me from posting or distracting me, check my tumblr, irisoflunadreams . tumblr . com


	9. My History is History

**Title:** My History is History  
**Words**: 2273 (2539, edited)  
**Rating/Warning: **Language, minor, K+/T?  
**Summary: ** England and America travel through time and move through space, well, away from their original location. And, that's all I'm saying in a summary, otherwise I'll spoil stuff.

**Note: **My explanations of things are probably not scientifically accurate, I was not trying to make them so. And, my history is not extensively researched. They are used for the sake of the plot only. I usually have more time to research things. And, I apologize about the POV switching.

* * *

In the breath of time America pauses to wait for England to finish his sentence, everything vanishes. America blinks the white from his eyes, the first of his senses to return from the moment of nothing that overtook him in the middle of England's explanation. He realizes that the air had turned cooler. A blink later, he realizes the scenery has drastically changed. The restaurant and table are gone, as is the sound of the ocean. The sky, once blue and bright, now roils with dark grey clouds. As he hugs his arms around himself, the rest of his senses race back to him all at once.

He cannot see England in the immediate vicinity, but he is sure the other nation is near, somewhere. He must be.

"England?" he calls. "England? Arthur!" He hears a muffled groan, and looks around him, frantically. "I don't think we're in Bermuda anymore."

"Ugh, you idiot," England approaches, brushing off dirt and leaves from his shirt and trousers. "This isn't Oz."

"No," America breathes the air deeply, glancing at the landscape surrounding them. "It's Virginia."

"Virginia? How can you tell?"

"How can you tell where in England you are at any one moment?"

"Oh," England admits and nods. "Point taken."

"Yeah." He rubs the back of this neck. "But, how did we get here?" With another rush of the wind chilling him through his thin shirt, he makes a more startling observation. He cannot see it, but he can detect the faint scent of ocean air mixed amid the earthy blend of the woods that surround them. Standing in such a short distance from the ocean, there should be luxury resorts, towns, people. In shock, he continues to examine their surroundings in disbelief, the bitter feeling in his throat builds.

"Alfred," England shakes him. "Alfred, what's the matter?"

"How did we get here?" he repeats, his voice seems small as he forces it from his throat past his heart, and desires to hide somewhere in the underbrush.

"Well, we should take a moment to discuss that. Let's go somewhere and sit." He starts to walk off in a random direction, but Alfred stays him with a hand to his arm. "What? Alfred? What's the matter with you."

"How could this have happened? What's going on? I don't understand." Still, with wide eyes, he stares at the trees all around them, as if spooked. "How can you be so calm?"

"Oh, I'm worried about our whereabouts. Trust me." England rubs his arms to rid himself of the chill.

"Not nearly concerned enough." He hears something, it sounds like voices. He grabs England's arm and sprints away, looking left and right for something, anything, that can disprove his fear of their current location.

"What the hell are you doing, Alfred?" England runs alongside him; he can do nothing else with America's tight grip on his bicep.

"Arthur!" he hisses, "we're not in the right time."

"Or the right place, yes, I know."

"You really don't get it. Shit! Dude." He shakes his head, he will have to suspend his usage of slang. "Ugh! We've traveled through time. And space."

"Yes," he agreed with a grumble, "we've already established that fact. Stop repeating. It makes you sound like an idiot. Why are we running?"

America decides to test England's own knowledge of their current situation. "Have you seen any people?"

"No..."

"Any buildings?"

"No." He frowns. "What are you getting at?"

"This is the Virginia Coastline."

"And?"

"And, you think I'm bad with geography," he huffs. "This area should be crawling with people, roads, cars, buildings, concrete, neon umbrellas..."

"Concrete doesn't need to be everywhere," he stops America before he can say anything more.

"I agree, but that's not what I'm getting at." Alfred slows his pace a little bit, still worried.

"What is it then? Just tell me."

"Whatever it was that made us take this little trip," he pauses, unsure how to continue, "took us back to Colonial Virginia."

England halts in his tracks, feet firmly planted in the ground and the abrupt stop nearly sends him and America both tumbling to the ground, but America catches them in time. He stares back at England, probably looking forlorn and lost, because that's how he feels. "No," the older nation breathes, barely a whisper.

"Yes!" He tries to pull them onward, but England will not budge. "And we gotta move!"

"Hello!" another voice calls out somewhere beyond the clustering of trees; it sounds familiar. Too familiar.

Bells ring in the distance.

"Oh!" America pulls again. "Come on! I know somewhere we can go. It's not far. " Just ahead, he sees the beginnings of a path; he knows these woods, even after a couple hundred years. He takes the over trod walkway of dirt and leaves, glad that England no longer resists. "And, then you can explain."

"I don't know what I'll explain, but the two of us can see what we can come up with. Where are you taking us?"

"The old barn. Heh, it's old even now."

"How do you know where it is?"

"Because of the ringing."

"The ringing?"

"Yeah, it came from the old lighthouse. If the light wasn't turning like that, that would mean the barn had already been burned down."

England goes quiet, seems to contemplate his words for a while. "Why did the barn burn down?" England finally asks, when they slow, a field with a large house and barn appear through a gap in the trees as they approach the edge of the woods.

"You burned it down."

He pauses, watching America jog forward without him. "Oh."

* * *

"I'm sorry," England says after they have settled in the loft, hidden in the loose hay, with horse blankets as padding.

"No, you're not," America laughs. Who does England think he's kidding.

"Okay, so I'm not," he replies and America answers with rolled eyes.

The loft goes quiet again, as they fidget and readjust their clothes. They had nicked more period appropriate attire from the clothesline. They are their property anyway, by association. They appease themselves with this excuse, because this is one of England's personal homes he had established in Virginia. Now they both wear clothing that bunches tight across their chests. Both suits are England's; they make due with their casual dress shoes, hoping that no one will take much notice of their feet.

"Talk," America says, suddenly breaking their silence, not so much a demand as an invitation.

England sighs. "What do you want to know?"

"First of all, how did we get here? And, how do we get back?"

"Well, something triggered the time-traveling device that powers the Bermuda Triangle, and..."

"Ugh, there you go again with that Bermuda Triangle crap. The Triangle is aliens."

England glares at him. "Oh, it is not. There is a perfectly scientific explanation for it. I'm surprised you, of all people, would believe such hogwash."

"Do tell."

"That was the plan." He clears the old wooden floor of some hay and starts to draw a crude map of the American coastline with a bit of charcoal, adds in Bermuda to the side and connects them with a triangle, adding a few other elements into the strange mixed up diagram. He cannot deny its roughness. "Sorry for the crudity of the map. It's not to scale."

"Oh, you just did not," America gapes. He's all for a good movie quote, but this is hardly the time.

"Belt up and listen," he does not let their conversation lag to any attempt at humor. "The forces that are said to 'power' the Triangle when it causes ship and plane disappearances are quite easy to explain away with natural phenomena, compass variations and methane hydrates from the ocean bottom. Well, the sinkings and mundane engine failures are explainable that way. Those forces within the triangle and a mechanism in a cave on one of the outlining islands working together have an entirely different operation." As he explained he drew points and arrows on the map-diagram.

"Operation?"

"It's actually more of a side effect when someone manipulates a few magnetically charged plates within the cave. The result is time travel."

"Neither of us were anywhere close to any cave, Arthur. How did this happen?"

"My honest opinion?"

"Yeah, lay it on me."

England knows that America has read the insinuation behind his question. He sighs. "Your little anti-bomb set it off."

"My signal? That doesn't make any sense?"

"You buy my explanation of the forces involved, but refute my argument that you are to blame? You are an unbelievable git. Yes, your signal."

"But how would that trigger something miles away," he pushes, the lines of his face have gone hard and serious.

"The electronic relay part. While you were sending all that data back and forth on network waves. I left part of my GPS system by the cave, so I could keep track of it with my bike's GPS."

America, having the expert technologically-inclined brain that he does, accepts this with few additional questions, which England answers to the best of his knowledge. The theory behind this form of time-travel is tetchy, both of them realize this, and choose not to push the limits of their patience just because their source knowledge is sparse. The only other explanation would be the presence of another nation in Bermuda. Neither of them saw any other nations walking around.

"We need to figure out what to do now," England states; that is obvious. "What year is it?"

"Well," America glances out the window, staring at something closer to the house, a far-away nostalgic glimmer makes his eyes glisten, "judging from that." He points, and England makes his slow way over the hay to the window. "I'd say autumn of 1762."

"How can you be so sure?" He finally reaches the window and looks out. "Oh," he whispers in awe as he watches; a younger version of the two of them are playing in the garden. America, the one down below them, just reaches the top of England's chest.

"The autumn before my really big growth spurt. We're gonna have to find a way to Bermuda, aren't we?" America asks, still watching their counterparts playing, happy and joyful.

"Unless I can think of another way, yes."

"Well, shit."

They would be stuck in the barn for a while. They could think about it.

A bark awakens England from a deep sleep, except it isn't a bark. It sounds too human and pained.

"England," America disturbs his half-sleep, nudging his shoulder gently.

* * *

It is dark outside, and the light of the moon and stars allows him to see well enough in the barn loft. "What is it America?" England whispers, somehow he now feels as though he should be more gentle with the younger nation, more open and caring and considerate. He doesn't understand it. He can't shake the feeling and cannot think of why he even feels that way.

"I don't feel so well," he whispers, his voice dry and scratchy.

"I'm sorry, Alfred. I don't know what could be wrong. We both ate. Maybe you are unused to the food of this era?"

"If I can eat your cooking, I can eat anything in any time," he mutters.

"I resent those words."

"I know you do. Neither of us can help the truth. And, no, 'M not hungry. Jus' don' feel good." He plops back down on a blanket covered mound of hay, and grunts, instantly folding himself into the fetal position.

"Don't feel 'well,'" England emphasizes, as he leans over to examine the younger nation's face, scrunched up and pale. "Wait." He put a hand to America's forehead. "You're burning up."

"Ugh," he groans again, leaning into his touch. "Feel so cold."

"Cold?"

Before he can contemplate that, America jolts up and coughs again, the sound gravelly, deep, productive. Without thinking, he pulls the hand away from the younger nation's mouth and looks at it. Red.

"You look like death warmed over." The airs on the back of his neck and arms stand up; he stares at America, gently pulls him toward the window to have a better look, the younger nation resist, but he nudges him to the light anyway. His eyes are dull and blood-shot, skin damp and heated.

"Wanna go home," he whispers, high and hoarse, and settles his head on England's lap, huddling close to his warmth. England cards his fingers through America's hair. He has not been this clingy in two hundred-fifty years. "Stay with me."

"Of course, I'll stay with you. Where would I go? Why would you ask such a..." He pauses; surely Alfred wouldn't have. Couldn't have. "Alfred, what did you do?"

"Wh'do you mean?" he mumbles.

"Did you do anything? Go anywhere? Talk to anyone?"

"Was cold."

"And? Tell me," he pushes.

"Got another blanket." He pulls over a blanket as proof; this is one softer, plusher, than the others they had borrowed.

"From where?" he questions gently, not wanting to panic America in his fever.

"From me."

"What do you mean from you?" This is crazy. Is he delirious? England wonders.

"I saw me going out and I asked the other me. So I went back inside and got me one and went back inside again. I was cute." He starts to settle in again, against the mound of blankets and stares blankly out the window.

"Yes, you were cute. Wait. You asked your younger self, Alfred?"

"Sure," he smiles, it seems far-away and happy, even though his face still pained. "Mini me."

"Oh no." A dozen scenarios play in England's mind about what might have been happening in the American colonies during this period, and it made his stomach crawl for new and horrible reasons.

"Hey, look," America points out the window. "'S you. You look nifty in those clothes, Artie."

"Haha," England laughs, soaking in a moment of nostalgia, looking at himself, looking back at America who is enjoying it, through he is pain. He could always tell emotions in the younger nation's eyes; those eyes could never lie. Those eyes, unshielded by dark-rimmed frames. "Alfred," his voice goes quiet and hitches in his throat. "How can you see all the way down there? Where are your glasses?"

He yawns and curls closer to him. "Over there." He points to the stack of their modern clothes, and promptly passes into unconsciousness.

If America doesn't need his glasses right now. What does that mean?

"Oh, god." Now, England feels sick. "We have to get you home."

He glances down to where America had been looking. There he stands, down there, at the back door, talking. Who was that? Gradually, his eyes continue to adjust to the light of the moon. He looks harder. The tall, looming figure, dwarfs his other self. Eventually, the man shifts his stance. Light, blonde hair, and … was that a scarf? It is...

It is Russia.

He has no memory of this meeting, and at the sight of it, his blood runs cold.

He had been wrong. Partially. His GPS signal took them along for the ride through time and space. But, it was Russia's ride.

* * *

**A/N:** Aaand, now we have an antagonist!

If anyone ever gets curious about what in the world is going if if there is a lag (or sudden surge) in updating, follow me over at tumblr, irisoflunadreams


	10. Because of the Butterfly Effect

**Title: **Because of the Butterfly Effect

**Word Count: **1055 (edited 1135)

**Rating/Warning: **T for some language

**Summary**: An explanation through which England explains the chaos theory as it relates to their mucking around with powerful forces beyond the province of man

**Theme**; Jurassic Park

**Note: **I didn't feel so comfortable writing about dinosaurs unless they are the "Land Before Time" style ones. So, I restyled some of the ethical debates discussed in the film for today's theme. Actually, no that's not completely true, I just didn't feel it was plot appropriate to have dinosaurs in it without a better reason.

* * *

"Oh god, I'm dealing with amateurs," England groans into his hands, talking only to help him reason through the chaos unraveling before him—America's shallow breaths and intermittent trembling in his shallow slumber, the clandestine conversation transpiring below. "No wonder the PM, and your president were so frantic about that damn Bermuda Triangle piece of shit; there had been an increase in certain kinds of foreign involvement on the islands, but I had no idea. No idea! Russia?! Who knows how long that had been going on. Ugh, we wasted so much time. Why couldn't they just tell me!?" he huffs, letting himself talk, in hope it would alleviate his frustration and growing headache.

"What children! You do not know what you're doing!" he hisses into the quiet of the night. At this point, it would not make any difference if he tracks down Russia and guts him on the spot for fooling with forces he cannot possibly comprehend. "From just that meeting there is no knowing what our presence has done here."

America curls up tighter, flinching at his tone as though struck, and whimpers. "Huh? Engwand? Arthur what?"

He drops the hand he had clutched against his chest to card his fingers through the younger nation's hair; it is damp with sweat and his forehead radiates heat. "Shush, Alfred. It's okay." Only a dozen or so hours ago, he had been so strong, so full of life. Now, the nation curled in his lap, enfeebled and suffering from an incomprehensible force, and his essence, what makes him what he is, is being altered. Were he human, he might simple fade away. It is terrifying, being so powerless to help. "Oh, why did you have to go down there?" he mutters under his breath. "You don't know what you've done."

America stirs again, barely shifting his head. "What'd I do?"

"Hm?"

"What did I do?" He coughs from the effort of repeating the statement so quickly.

"Calm down."

"Tell me," he insists. Still stubborn. Maybe he isn't changed quite as much as England feared.

"Damn it, do you know how dangerous it was, doing what you did? What was done to you? To us?" What ever has happened, England does not feel the ill-effects as America does. He supposes that he should be grateful, but cannot bring himself to of it as fortune. Instead, he counts his blessings that he feels powerful enough to help America after such a distant trip through time. To one of his least favorite places in time.

"Don't understand," he breaths, the sound coming as a hiss.

"Messing around with time."

"How'd I do that? Didn't mean to," he whimpers, curling closer until he is practically wrapped around England's legs and waist.

"I know. I am not angry with you. It's just … our little jump through time here. You're already being changed. Somethings are meant to happen. Some events meant to take place. But, you see, we never know what those events are. We never know what's supposed to happen, what isn't. Russia. He is trying to obliterate you. Well, eliminate you as a threat."

Suddenly, America releases him, sits up and stares, his face stern and irritated. "Eng-" he coughs, still produces blood, and he looks at it as a scared child, but ignores it to address a different problem. "England, what are talking about?"

"Time travel. It's a violent, penetrative act that scars what you seek to observe, rapes what you try to adjust." That is no explanation, and he offers what he hopes is an apologetic look only to see shining tears in the younger nation's eyes.

"Love time-travel movies, I appreciate the science. But, your ranting, it sure reminds me of something. Can't think of what." He lays back into the hay and England's lap. "Can't think. Hurts."

"The Butterfly Effect. You remember that don't you, Alfred?"

"Like in Jurassic Park?"

England stares at him a moment to wonder how he choose that particular movie after the speech he just gave. He thinks. Tries to recall a couple of the key elements of the plot, "Well, somewhat. Anyone...thinking they can control time. It's ludicrous. Time works on the essence of chaos as well. Like nature, but bigger. You know, the unpredictability of complex systems, right? Of course, what am I saying? You taught me Chaos Theory."

"Does the flap of a butterfly's wings set off a tornado in Texas?"

"Exactly."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Or does a late night visit in 1762 cause or prevent a war in 1776?"

His eyes flash with familiarity—the fierce patriot that England recognizes—full of urgent alarm at his half-rhetorical question. It is some small victory that his mind is not all gone, that he is fighting the pull of the rewritten history undoubtedly unfolding within him. He jolts upright, only to crumple back to the hay in a coughing fit. "1776? What do you mean prevent a war in 1776?" Again, he coughs.

"Alfred, please try to keep still." He forces America gently back down and receives weak resistance; he can restrain him much too easily. He is afraid to trouble America further with their time travel dilemma at present, but, he seems to gain comfort from his voice. So, so he just talks, says whatever crosses his mind, words that America shared with him. "Consider a drop of water. You hold your hand flat." He lifts America's hand as he speaks, brushing his fingers across the back of other nation's hand. A drop of water falls on your hand. Which way will it fall? Off which finger?"

America hums as if to answer, but the quiet grunt is untranslatable.

"And another drop hits your hand. But, it doesn't go the same way. The path changed. Why? Tiny variations. The orientations of the hairs on your skin, the imperfections, the vessels and blood pumping through your hand. All the microscopic bits, never repeating, all vastly affect the outcome. That's the unpredictability." He pauses to take a deep breath; America has fallen asleep in his lap. Carefully, he lays back against their mound of hay and pulls the younger nation up against his chest, so he can wrap his arms around him and hold him through what remains of the night. "That's our problem."

There are a myriad of concepts, premises, theories he could play with to get them back home, and spells and enchantments he could use as a bandage on the potential damage done, but that's just the issue. There is no telling what damage is done. How extensive is it?. What will it effect? He can no sooner calculate these things as he can the pattern that grass will grow. He might as well ask Tinkerbell for her map to the London Eye via Seattle, Washington.

* * *

**A/N**: Hope that all made sense. Let me know if it didn't, and what it was that tripped you up and I'll fix it.

Originally, I was going to update BMCBP, but the universe had other plans for me tonight like dumping all my recent edits to the file. And, like keeping me awake past my bedtime, by clogging up my breathing passageways. It's hard to sleep when I keep panicking every time I lay down.


	11. That's Sticky Business

**That's Sticky Business  
Word Count: **1125, (edited 1246)  
**Rating/Warning**: K+, brief passing mention of fighting  
**Summary: **England contemplates their situation and tries to help America with the use of a little magic. Also, has their trip back in time had any effect on England? Perhaps.  
**Theme movie: **Harry Potter  
**Note: **I really hesitate to admit this...but, I haven't seen much Harry Potter, just the first movie, and I've read even less. What hints are here, mentions of Time-Turners, are merely from a bit of research. (Please don't hurt me!)

* * *

Carefully, England extricates himself from the pretzel of America's limbs, and rests the young nation's head on a small tussock of hay covered in one of their modern shirts, tucking some more around him so, if he starts into another coughing spasm or even a seizure, God forbid, he will not fall off the edge of the loft. Against his better judgment, he glances down at America; his physique appears solid enough, long limbs and dense musculature all unchanged. And, then he sees it, that sneaky bit of moisture on his cheeks and slight quivering of his shoulders. He looks closer. Upon appraising the intangible, preternatural space any nation occupies, instead of the hulking, pulsating, intensity of a superpower, he perceives all the clout of a child, innocuous and, dare he think it, docile. He has always considered it dangerous to think of America as anything approaching docile, but, now, he wonders. This is not the same America he once witnessed fighting despite multiple bullet wounds in during World War II.

Something is changed. He doesn't want to contemplate how their presence here has affected history.

The young nation's coughing fits and fading in and out of consciousness is proof enough, and that could not be coincidence. England knows the effects of time-travel. That is why every book on magic that has ever existed cautions against it. He previously had no knowledge of its immediate effects on the physical body; no one ever recorded it. He knows now. Is it because America is a nation and tied to his country, its people, its history that he still lives?

With a sigh, England pulls out his wand from his boot. He cannot consciously allow America to remain in such pain, so he casts a small spell to remove some of his suffering, though he cannot remove it altogether, because he cannot eliminate its true source. Like treating symptoms, but ignoring the disease. The lines in America's face soften. That's something, at least.

However wrong it feels to leave America up in the loft—as though he were abandoning a baby—he has to move, he has to think. As quietly as he can, he descends to ground level to brood alone.

For a while, he wanders around the barn, idly exploring its small spaces.

Their mere presence in this era is an aberration against the natural world. How long had they been here? He does some mental calculations. Six hours, he guesses. Far too long. Oh, what he would give for a Time-Turner. Not that it would help them. He knows they must return through the same means that they arrived.

Even if they went back, the damage is done. History is already altered. What did their future-present have in store for them. He doesn't even know what events in their current-present have been altered. What will they find when they return?

The thoughts madden him. His calming walk has served only to agitate him further.

England spins on his heels; upset at the seeming futility of the situation, he kicks at the metal bindings of a stall door. _Crunch_. They bend and break on contact. He hadn't been able to do that in decades. He stopped resorting to physical demonstrations of his anger years ago. He merely felt the contact, felt no pain. He was sure that he would have come away with a sore toe. But, nothing.

Suddenly, he cringes at the loud sound he had made, though the echo has died. The barn is silent, and he is relieved that he did not disturb America. With glance up at the loft, he sighs and ventures back to where he remembered seeing an old cart, sturdy, but broken down by even Seventeenth Century standards.

England approaches it slowly, regarding it as one would a sleeping bull. It's metal fittings are still stout and inflexible. It was the wheels and wood planking that sent it to this quiet retirement as surplus hay storage for the horses. He runs a hand along the thickest fittings, where the horses would be harnessed. There, the metal is thicker than his bicep and his fingers cannot fit around it. He wraps both hands firmly against it, cannot clinch his fingers closed. With a deep breath, he flexes his hands and braces himselfHe remembers this feeling, forgot how much he missed it.

"England?" America calls quietly from the loft, distracting him. He sounds panicked at being left alone. "England where are you?"

The following whimper, startles him and his hands twitch. _Squeak. Snap._ The metal bends and twists in his hands as though it was nothing but a twig. That feels wonderful, like a cool breeze on a sunny day filling his lungs. He feels so alive.

And, now, with his heart in his throat, things have just become even more startling.

Slowly, he lowers the fittings to the ground, and backs away.

"England? What's going on?"

"Ah, nothing. Nothing for you to worry about," he replies, finally.

"Could you come back up, please?" At one point, he had been rather shy, but never so reserved.

"Of course." England's brow furrows at the timidity in the younger nation's tone and hurries back up to the loft.

"Oh good," America sighs when his head pops into sight. "I heard loud noises down there." Carefully, he rises and hastens on shaky hands and knees to hug him, as he used to a long time ago; England ushers him away from the edge and back to the make-shift bed. "I'm glad you're okay."

"You need to be sleeping. You're ill."

"I couldn't get comfortable without you," he pouts.

"Oh, so needy."

He whinges, "I am not!"

"Whatever you say. Come on," he lays down, easily pushing America down as well, even though he attempts to resist; it is futile. England's grip is too firm, and America's too weak.

"Can't sleep." America coughs; he no longer looks so pained, but he still coughs blood.

"Here, let me help you. Lay down. Rest your head on the pillow," England murmurs. He drapes his fingers over his eyes and mutters a few words. This will put him to sleep for a good six hours. He doesn't know what to do with America, besides give him the rest that he needs. But, really, it's time that they do not have, time that they require, and time that they cannot afford to take. Time that he needs to think. So, he supposes that it doesn't matter.

Soon, America's eyes flutter and close.

As he recalls the soft, reverential smile America gave him upon his return to the loft, and contemplates the feel of the metal braking in his hands, he wonders what, exactly, is it that they had changed. If he could, would he change it back again? And, he realizes, time-travel is far sticker business than he gave it credit. And, he gave it plenty of credit.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the update delay. Again. Just a few more chapters left of this. I hope my readers are still enjoying it. :)**


	12. Nobody Ties Baby in the Corner

**Chapter Title** Nobody Ties Baby in the Corner  
**Word Count: **1817 (edited, 2035)  
**Rating/Warning **T, a little violence and some course language  
**Summary: **America is caught. England must save him.  
**Theme: **Dirty Dancing  
**Note** Don't read this expecting romance or dancing; it doesn't have either. England and America have a more familial relationship, which I don't often portray. I wrote this whole thing _just_ so England could call America "baby." I feel no shame, none at all.

* * *

England has visited himself before. He has traveled through time on other occasions, but only as a spectator (mostly)—not like the time he went back to talk himself out of dwelling on certain hurt feelings and a grudge (that memory is best kept locked back in the recesses of his mind; it did no good for anyone).

Just last month he had traveled back to speak to Britain about his intentions behind impressionism (not that he had forgotten), and, oh had he received a lecture, and a sound beating, about revealing any perceived weakness and letting his fencing skills get so rusty. England revels in his counterpart's shock at being overpowered with such swiftness. It was more of an effort not to break bones as he grabs and ties Britain with his own cravat. It is almost comical, the way his counterpart's eyes shine with contempt at being tied so easily to the chair.

England smiles at himself, and wonders what Britain thinks of him now. "Where is little America?" England asks him again.

Britain thrashes against the chair. "What do you think you're doing? Release me at once!"

"Ah, no. You see, I can't do that. Answer my question. I know you can tell the gravity of my situation by my actions. You know me."

"Still, if I refuse?"

Britain is insufferable, though England understands his obstinacy. He was not this prickly all the time when he was an empire. Now is not the time, but there is no telling his counterpart otherwise. From the challenging glare, he knows what he must to do. "I won't tell you what I know about America." He jumps to his trump card, because he will not waste time while Alfred suffers. He just hopes Britain takes the bait.

"You would reveal the future to me?" His other self, usually the poster child of hidden emotions, stares with undisguised astonishment.

"Tell me." He knows the things he has done in his past, has no problem being rough even with himself, knows Britain is of the same mind. New memories twitch in his mind as minutes tick away. What is put into place will happen. Nothing he tells himself can make an ounce of difference. He would prefer his own future-past to be known to him. "I would."

"I choose not to believe you." Such stubbornness, one of his defining characteristics, earns Britain a hard slap across the cheek; he snarls and licks the line of blood along the corner of his lips back into his mouth.

He smirks. "I know you cannot help but believe me by virtue of who we are."

"Very well." He sighs. "He rests upstairs in his room."

England rolls his eyes. "Was that so hard?"

"Now your end of the bargain?"

"I knew you were curious."

"What do you so desperately need to tell me about-?"

"America rebels," England interrupts the question.

"You lie!"

"You remember which century I'm from, yes?"

"The Twenty-First, I remember. And, you insult us both by asking."

"America," England calls out, and hopes that the nation remembers what he told him about standing up straight and trying to act like his usual self, and tries not to cringe as he recalls the confusion in Alfred's eyes. "You may come in now."

"Oh," Britain gasps in awe when the door opens and America enters.

Instead of bounding in, as England would expect of him any other day, he opens and closes the door quietly, and shuffles into the room with his shoulders ramrod straight, his head tucked down toward his chin, eyes averted like a soldier resigned to his doom.

This is not America as a gangly lad, before the beginning of the American Revolution; this is America, battled hardened with the muscles to show for it visible through his borrowed shirt, snug across the chest, his useless glasses on his nose.

"What have you been feeding our little boy?" he asks finally, after America has approached England and they stand almost shoulder to shoulder, displaying their striking difference in build.

"He-" England's voice breaks, battling conflicting emotions, "he is not our little boy. He belongs to no one." However, those tickles in his brain cause that statement to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm a," America begins, but suddenly turns to England. "Arthur, I can't tell him this!"

"But you are!" he insists. "Go on. Tell him."

"I'm an independent nation, the United States of America," he mumbles, making the statement barely convincing.

"No," Britain breathes.

"He is," England says.

"Even if you are," Britain looks him up and down, "your apparent age is unlikely. How old are you? Sixteen years? You appear older than that, but you couldn't possibly be even that old."

"He is nineteen," England says and smirks at Britain's look of astonishment.

If you really are my America," he pauses a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. "Come here, baby."

"I had to, uh, grow up quickly, sir," he ducks his head in deference, on the verge of tears, and approaches Britain. "I was alone a lot."

The alterations continue, England notes in despair. "There is nothing we can do to stop it," he mutters quickly upon reading the odd nostalgic glimmer in America's eyes as they are averted from him and Britain.

"So, this is what Russia meant," Britain muses, unable to take his eyes from America. "Oh baby, why?"

America does not answer, but his lips quiver.

"You are nothing I imagined you to be."

What is he witnessing here? This is not how England expected things to go, even in a worst-case scenario. "Russia?" England asks. "What's Russia got to do with anything?"

"He was here. Told me about America. I thought he was lying," he answers England, yet keeps his eyes firmly fixed on America. "Oh baby, I don't want you to have anything to do with such people again."

"What has Russia told you?" England growls.

"Not France. Not Spain. Not Russia." After a long pause, he finally shifts his attention back to England. "Exactly what you told me, Arthur, but I couldn't believe it."

"I can explain, sir?" America offers.

_Creak_. The wood of the chair strains against itself and _squeaks_ across the wood floor. England rushes at Britain as he pulls at his bindings; he had loosened them over time without his notice while America had partially blocked him from view. "Shit. I knew it." With a careful shove he removes America from his path and swipes his hand across Britain's face, closing his eyes. A momentary glow is the only evidence of the magic he casts before his counterpart goes limp in the chair.

"You made me do that," he growls to the unconscious nation and America bows his head in apology. "He must get on a ship tomorrow morning. But, he will have no memory of what transpired here, just now."

"I understand. I just wish you-he could have let me tell you-him," he struggles.

England's full attention snaps in America's direction. "Tell me what?"

The younger nation doesn't answer right away, he turns toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "Nothing. Never mind. It's not important."

"Damn it," England hisses, alone in the room, "I couldn't even get any further information on Russia." He huffs, before he can return to America in the barn, he must heft himself up to his bedroom, lest they arose suspicion.

* * *

The next evening at twilight, from their base in the barn loft, they spy Russia sneaking back into the house.

"Alfred," England shakes him from a nap; he has been needing them far too often as his coughing fits become more frequent. "Russia has returned."

He startles awake and rises before he is ready, forcing himself back down to his pallet, panting.

"Slowly," England urges. "Slowly now. Take it easy. We can rush when you're awake."

"This is Russia, here, England. We gotta hurry," he hastens to the ladder, clutching it tightly, as he begins to lower himself to the ground. "No time."

England follows.

America is still too light-headed to run, so he can match his pace easily.

* * *

The house is dark save for a light from the fireplace in the ground floor study. They make their way quickly, familiar with the layout of the house even after so many centuries. Silently, England signals America to stay back and approach the room from the outside door. He complies with a huff, and England progresses alone. It is better this way. He will not enter in fear of having to protect himself and America.

With Russia in the house, his blood chills in his veins. Maybe he still possesses that odd display of strength from yesterday. Should he rely on it? There has been no indication that he lost it, though he had done nothing to test it during the course of the day.

A clink draws his attention as he nears the door. And, to his confusion, the study is locked. He pats down the knob and the floor to find the key, hoping it is somewhere near. This is wasting precious seconds. Out of the corner of his eye he spies the key, a glint on the floor illuminated by the light of the moon. He blesses his luck, as he bends down to pick it up.

A voice calls out, and he hears scuffling on the other side of the door. This is all wrong. In his desperation to get the door unlocked, he drops the key twice, and contemplates just kicking the door down.

"This is going to create such ripples," he grumbles as he finally gets the lock in the door and jerks it open.

There, on the sofa in the far corner of the room, sit both Americas bound in rope, the younger of the two, his colony, is gagged. Russia towers over them both; he has no weapon, seems a little worse for the wear, but, with the older America almost out of commission for a fight and the younger, barely a preteen, is still skittish when in the company of strangers (or anyone other than England or his own people), he need wield none against either of them.

"England, what surprise to find you here." He grins like the child he is not, and lies through his teeth.

Rage bubbles; before England can think he charges across the room and has Russia in a choke hold. Russia gasps, chocking further, and reaches up to extricate himself from the tight grip. England cannot be outdone so easily, but releases Russia anyway, confident that he made a point. He quickly decides to make another. Spinning on his toes, he kicks Russia to the floor, pressing a foot to his back, and twisting the other nation's arm in an awkward angle.

He waits for Russia to turn his head before he speaks. "No one puts my baby in the corner. You are lucky that I don't absolutely end you right here." And, surprises himself at the absolute pride and conceit with which he speaks. "Right now. Do you understand me, Russia?"

"Wh-What is this, E-England?" he stammers. "You are England! You are not empire. What did you do?"

He laughs."What did I do? I did nothing. This is all your doing. Whatever you tampered with is your fault."

"Oh god, Ivan," America whispers, staring at us. "What have you done?"

"Made you powerless, little America," he hisses and England presses his foot harder into the nation's back. "Ugh! You can send us back, yes?"

"Why would I do that just now?" He feels the living sparks in his finger tips, his arms, every muscle in his body. Such strength. Such power that he has not felt in decades since he gave up so much of his empire. Now, he wonders how much more has been added to him. What did Russia expect to gain? America's defeat? Had he not realized what would happen if America remained a British colony? If a British colony had been attacked by an influential nation and Britain had come to his aid.


	13. Not All Treasure is Silver and Gold

**Title: Not All Treasure is Silver and Gold**

**Word Count**: 1077 (edited, 1150)

**Warnings/Rating:** Some coarse language, brief

**Summary**: England, America and Russia must return to Bermuda to return to the future. And, England must resist some unique treasure that keeps tempting him.

**Note: **No pairings. Sorry.

* * *

In their present,—the future—is America a British colony? Every indication from his condition to reactions, raise his suspicions. That self-satisfied braggart in the recesses of England's mind, rubs its hands together at the mere thought of regaining possession of America.

"England?" America, thankfully, disrupts his train of thought. "We should."

How foolish of him not to have been paying attention. "Should what?" He glances over toward the sofa, between the two Americas, and then turns toward the elder one.

"We need to go home." Both Americas appear lost and scared, but this one, with all his muscles and not-so-quiet strength, breaks his heart.

He continues to study the other nation, his posture and coloring, still taciturn, flush, feverish. His cheeks are still bright red and his eyes dilated. "I dare say you are right. I cannot do anything for you here. How do you feel? And, don't you dare say, 'alright.'"

Clearly, he is uncomfortable with being called out on his normal comeback, and pouts. "Not so great," his whispered reply was eerily reminiscent of Canada.

He hums and turns to the other nation, clearly unexpected, because the Russian tenses in response. Holding him firmly to the floor with a foot to that broad back is empowering. Still, the nation struggles, has fidgeted through his entire exchange with America, but his grip is easy and secure. Like bunnies watching wolves, the eyes of both America's are riveted on both Russia and England, Russia in particular. Twisting and knotting his ego, it is so difficult to keep the deeply satisfied hubris of imperial power at bay as he watches them alternatively cringe and admire every time Russia twitches and he pushes him back down again.

"Russia," he says suddenly. Determined not to let that facet of himself get the best of him, he gives Russia a warning press between his shoulder blades before he allows him to rise to his feet. Pointedly, he stands between the Americas and Russia, unsure of what such a loose cannon would attempt to pull once freed.

He straightens up and cracks his back to release cramped muscles. "Took you long enough," he mutters.

"You're a technologically savvy nation. And rather intelligent. Tell me how you got here and your theory about getting us home."

"Very well." He reaches in the depths of a coat pocket—England tenses and crowds the Americas against the couch with his presence, but Russia is so deeply involved in his search he takes no notice—and pulls out several pieces of paper.

"Here." He crosses the room to display them on a wide table that already head several maps and documents.

"Stay here, baby," England pats the colony on the head, but beckons the nation to come with him. "Come along, Alfred." It is disconcerting for America—once so intrusive and reckless—to require his encouragement or consent to do anything, even more so to be obeyed without question.

Already, he could tell, the longer they continue on in this fashion, in this created timeline, the easier it will be for him to lead and America to follow. And, despite every wish that he has—has ever had—for America to remain with him willingly, just like this, it is wrong. America should belong to no one but himself. And, as the three of them pour over the maps and plan, he can only think of the glee of possession and the guilt of wanting it so badly. But, America is America, and America can only be free.

* * *

Refreshing it is, to be out on the open sea. Distracting. England watches the waves crest, watches the water sparkle, watches the horizon stretch into infinity. It is slow sailing, journeying back to Bermuda in the Eighteenth Century.

He can rest assured that if they straightened out everything on their end for this period, that no one will remember their presence here, his, Russia's or America's. He saw to that personally. Few people saw them, for that he is thankful.

They sail as passengers on one of his ships. The only one that would not be contested in these waters, and the only one sailing out of Virginia for open waters. They keep their identities hidden. Russia is under strict orders to remain silent, lest he arouse distrust among the ship's crew and passengers due to the ever shaky ties they shared as nations. For most of the trip he holes himself up in their meager quarters. That is perfectly acceptable to England, he has other problems, like his new little shadow.

America has recently taken to hovering, chasing his heels, asking if he needs anything. Making him wonder, if America remained his colony—territory, dependent—what would he have been like over time? But, he admonishes himself, there is no use thinking such thoughts.

Instead, to distract himself, and America, he tells the young nation tales of the sea...until England becomes distracted by a sudden sunny-eyed smile. "What's with you?"

"Oh, nothing. I love your stories. Tell me another one," he pauses. "Please?"

"What's gotten into you?" England chuckles.

His eyes go comically wide. "Huh?"

"You always complain about my 'stuffy ol' stories.' Always."

"No." He seems so genuine and earnest. "They're wonderful.

An eyebrow raises in suspicion. He stares into his eyes until America takes a step back and away from him.

"Aw, come one," he whines, well somethings do not change so easily, and that is some comfort. "Just tell me another one."

Maybe he should take the bait. "Alright. But, first. You must answer a question."

"Oh," America blinks in surprise, but agrees. "Anything."

"What do you remember?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Of the past. Your past. The Revolution. Your Civil War. The Great War. Any of it. What do you remember," he pushes, and his afraid he was too firm, because the younger nation is recoiling, blinking, wide-eyed.

"I remember fighting with you." Not against, England notes. "And Russia. In Europe during the Great War. But..." he swallows hard. "Civil War? Revolution?"

And, the shit officially, metaphorically, hit the fan. England swallows hard. He does wish to know what all America implies by the hint of inquiry. "Forget I said anything. I'm sorry, Alfred. I suddenly find that I am quite tired. I will tell you another story later. Hm?" He gives the young nation's arm a firm, comforting squeeze.

"Okay, England."

He feels nauseous from America's looking of bewilderment. Without another word, he leaves for the relative coolness of an overhang.

So many questions. What the hell had Britain been told to offer America to get him to stay with the Empire and not rebel? What new memories did America have that he did not? Why did he have these new memories?

The ship rocks and shifts with his mood. Thunder sounds in the distance. A storm is brooding outside his head, as well. How fitting.

* * *

I will be adding the last chapter shortly!


	14. It's the Cape That Makes it Great

**Title: **It's The Cape That Makes it Great  
**Word Count: **2779 (edited 2790)  
**Rating/Warning**: T for some violence  
**Summary: **In which all is wrapped up with a sea voyage, the necessary fight scene and a nifty cape.  
**Theme**: The Avengers

* * *

As they stand on the dock, newly arrived at Bermuda, America cannot help but marvel at the circumstances of how they went full circle. Well, almost full circle, he amended in his mind. They aren't back to their time yet. But, he figures, that will come soon enough. They just have to re-track that pesky time thingy and figure out how to use it to return.

America also cannot help but wonder about how England looks so much like an old-fashioned hero from an adventure book. Maybe it was all of England's stories.

* * *

Sailing the open seas after so many years, has an effect on a person. An effect on a former pirate—privateer. England holds his head high above deck, glares at people, growls orders. But, he doesn't spend much time mingling with the crew as America remembered England telling him in his stories.

After the first day of their voyage to Bermuda passed, England had taken to the tranquility of their shared cabin—and avoided Russia who primarily hid away in the second bedroom, so he was forced to share a bed with England. Not that England slept much. Mostly, he crouched over dry, crackly books with yellowed pages and real leather backs. He remembered his moment of awe when England conjured up the first stack the morning of their first full day on board.

With great hesitance—and confusion that he was at all hesitant in the first place—America asked for a book to read. England had commented on that with a great look of consternation on his face. America couldn't see how it was wrong to ask for a book.

"Since you wanted me to conjure something up for you, I just figured you would ask for something more modern, like one of your hand held gaming devices or a comic book, is all. But, if it is a book you want, so be it. Hold my right hand." He waved his other hand over the table top and there, in a swirl of little black twinkling lights _Treasure Island _appeared. "That's the book you wanted?"

America nodded, eyes full of excitement.

"A bit different, isn't it, Alfred?"

"But it's got adventure in it. It's exciting!" He thought a moment. "It has pirates!" He smiled at England. The raised eyebrow he received in response was comforting, England almost seemed flattered.

"Very well," he muttered. "It's a bit old, so be careful."

"Of course."

"And don't take it out of the room, it hasn't yet been published in this time."

"Oh, right." America clutched the book to his chest and settled in the dark red wing back chair on the other side of the room, out of England's way. He opened the book and hoped that his plan to distract himself from all the conflicting thoughts and emotions and memories would work. He just needed to lose himself in a book the way England lost himself in his work. All the big country things in his mind were particularly distasteful and he knew they were legitimate worries he should have, but, half his mind couldn't fathom why he had them to such an extent.

* * *

England had a permanent sea trunk stowed on board, with clothing and personal effects, so he need not continually pack and repack his things, or dirty his good clothing, every time he set sail hither, thither and yonder. He had clothing for America as well, though had he rarely ever taken the boy on long trips at sea—though they were a bit snug. But now, he was glad to have them. Their other clothes, that they had borrowed in Virginia were quite worn, America's were bloody and sweat stained. Even though he had less use for changing his clothing, England donned a new set of clothes; the trousers and shirt seemed so regal and romantic and dashing, like the characters in the book America read. And he could just picture England there as one of the characters, like a hero.

America went through quite a collection of books—on average one a day—during their trip to Bermuda; he had a gauge to measure it by, since England always sent them back from wince they came the same time he whisked off the magic books as he finished searching through them. Supposedly, it was less messy that way. Whatever floated your boat, America decided.

* * *

Disembarking the ship at Bermuda is the first time he can recall seeing Russia for days other than at meal time. He isn't too concerned with Russia, though the nation does look rather odd without his heavy coat and in Eighteenth Century period clothing. Bigger almost. How is that possible?

Still, it is England who holds most of his attention. England, lithe, balanced, graceful England, with his feathered hat, and his gloves and his scarlet cape billowing in the sea breeze. He looks like a flashy Zorro or something; he even has a sword hanging at his side. His movements are just as smooth. America wishes he had a nifty hat and cape; they wouldn't even have to be red, because he would settle on any color to look as cool as that. The word "superhero" tickles at the description he gave to England. Yeah, that would fit.

* * *

Between the three of them, they piece together the location of the particular island on the archipelago. It just takes a bit longer to get there in this time than it does in theirs. They go on horseback, and it does not take nearly as long as America feared to finally glimpse the familiar cave once again.

"On the trip over I managed to narrow down some possible spells and other approaches we can take to get back to our time," England explains, taking the lead as they walk toward the cave. "I had thought that it was Alfred's idiot device that triggered something with the island's electromagnetic field, but I was wrong. It was you, Russia. Whatever you did while you were here at the cave cause it."

"So what?" America is puzzled. "How did it just transport us then?"

"Think about it a moment."

"America's 'idiot device' and the cave rocks?" Russia offered.

"Well that might be part of it and might account for our movement through space as well as time, but I think there is something more to consider."

"Hm," America whips sweat from the back of his neck. The woolen monstrosity he wears is far worse than the black suit in the island heat. Oh, how he longs for the suit. Not to mention the fact that he wears clothing meant for a young teenager, tight across the chest and joints and crotch too. His head still hurts, and, since their arrival in the Eighteenth Century, he is still nauseated and achy. Just walking and riding a horse is draining. He squirms, hoping England does not notice. "Uh, it could just be for nations," he offers.

England nods. "That was my thinking as well, Alfred."

America relishes a puzzling moment of pride from the elder nation's acknowledgment.

"Anyway, however we look at it, Russia, you are the key to getting us back."

"Yes." He nods.

They end up fiddling with the damn stone for half an hour before the world goes purple and aquamarine and they end up in the same cave mouth that they presumably left.

America looks around at the trees, trying to notice if there is any difference. "Did it work?"

England taps on the stone wall at the month of the cave. "I would say it did. There are motorized boats out there out there." He points out toward the horizon.

"Whew," America breathes. "I'm glad."

A laugh, high-pitched and perversely childlike fills the cave, the sound is punctuated by the distinct _schling_ of a weapon as it is unsheathed. "As am I, America. But you two are not leaving this island. Just yet. You see, I think I like history they way it has just become."

"The way it just became? What?" America swallows hard, and turns to face Russia; he has a long dagger in hand, pointed at his chest.

In a whirl of sound and motion, he is tugged by the arm and twisted into a one-armed vice grip. He cannot move, though he still struggles.

He hears another weapon being unsheathed, as he brings his arm up and back to slam his elbow in Russia's gut. Russia pivots and his swing goes astray.

"Let him go," England hisses. And, when America looks over, he has his sword out at the ready. "Let him go." He raises it at Russia.

"I think...no." Russia presses the knife against the skin above his jugular, England pauses. "If I leave here, you will just go back in time and undo what I did just now. Reverse it. I cannot have that. So, you will come with me."

England keeps his sword held at Russia. "This is ludicrous. You don't know what you've done. We don't even know what we've come back to here. What are you ready to face?"

"I know what I have here!" He shakes America, causing his bones to jar; he is in enough pain as it is.

The dagger presses against his neck, leaving a sting of pain, and he whimpers as he feels the warm dribble. Despite the confusing panic that threatens to cripple him, he leans away from the blade, ducking down and grabs for Russia's arms to free himself. But, Russia's grip proves to be more than he remembers—that he thinks he remembers.

"Stop!" Russia warns, "or I will slice through your pretty little neck. And, I know you would not like that."

America stills instantly, and as he does, catches the steely look in England's eyes.

"I will tell you this one more time. Let him go."

"No." He can feel Russia smile against the back of his head as he uses him as a human shield against England's attach. They all know England will not sacrifice him. "Now get out of the way."

The cool pressure of the blade against his neck increases, and they move forward, with a jerk and fumble of legs knocking against each other—and why doesn't England just attach him? Soon they approach the cave entrance. Suddenly he is dipped down and over, and someone has kicked him in the side, hard. The world goes fuzzy as he falls and crumples against the rock wall.

Russia now has his lead pipe, pulled out of nowhere, brandishing it and the short sword against England, wielding his long elegant sword. Their movements are so swift, he can hardly follow the ebbs and turns and attacks of the sword fight. England still looks like a very bright Zorro, but it is the whirling of his cape that keeps his eyes unfocused.

He blinks. Someone cries out and, with a great clash, their weapons have vanished.

Their movements are mesmerizing. Russia, as large as he is, like the Hulk seems he would dominate a fight the way he utilizes his bulk and muscle mass. But, England, though nearly a head shorter is still strong, lithe and quick and precise. Though his cape reminds America of Superman, that's where that comparison ends. England is too thin. The way his round kick is almost too fast to keep up with and his punches come from nowhere and how he's there one second and somewhere else the next, reminds America more of the Flash.

The bloody lip and black eye, reveal a couple of the hits Russia managed to give to England, but judging from the way they move, it is England who has landed the most hits. Russia favors one side, moves with a limp, his breathing ragged.

"How you do this?" Russia wheezes as England lands a punch to his nose and another to his ribs, which must be bruised already.

"I'm the British Empire, you ponce! Did you really think about what you were doing when you went back to America's colonial days to undo history. Did you?"

"I, yes. I planned."

"Well you didn't factor in an important point." England slips under one of Russia's arms, pulling it back with him, and gets him in an odd, painful headlock.

"Wh-ah!" He groans. "What is that?"

"Apparently, I retain enough of my colonies in the present time to, ah! Stop struggling when I am speaking to you!" he bellows, tightening his grip.

"How are you so strong?"

"I retain enough of my colonies to have dominion over more of the world than I ever had before," he laughs, and it chills America's blood, because, even when he had realized back in the 18th Century that he was still a subject of Britain, he hadn't considered the nation's sudden strength and his peculiarly submissive new behavior, which has troubled him immensely.

"Now," England declares, "you will stop resisting, and listen to me. You will let me go, and will not hurt America. Understand?"

Russia grumbles under his breath, and then huffs. "Fine."

"You will let us go back and fix this. However you managed it. And, we will all go home. If you agree, I will let you go, if not, I snap your neck and Alfred and I will figure out how to fix it ourselves while everyone one waits for you mend." He emphasizes his point with a firm, tight, yank on Russia's spine, causing the muscles and bones in his shoulders to grind unnaturally. "Do you want to have to go through that kind of pain?"

"Why?" Russia wheezed. "Why would you want to give up all that power? Why?"

"Because, however marvelous it feels," he glaces at America, "and it is glorious. I did not come by it fairly. I cannot keep it. It's not right."

"I cannot understand you. But, I agree to this," Russia finally agrees, dropping to his knees, gasping. When England finally releases his grip, all support for his overexerted limbs falls away, and he folds to the ground in a big muscly heap.

With cracks and pops, England stretches, as he walks over to America. He offers him a hand to get up, but he doesn't take it. "Come on, baby," England whispers, folding America into a hug, rubbing his shoulders. Though, he surmises, this is to keep himself upright as well. "I'm sorry he hurt you. Let's go get this fixed."

America stares at the other nation, the amazing hero who just stood up for him, and an ideology he once begrudged. He had all his power returned to him, and now he's willing to give it all back.

* * *

"Ugh," America rolls over and stretches.

"Ouch! Get off me, you git," a voice mumbles from underneath him.

America rolls back over to his side of the sofa, but hears a thud in response.

"Ow!"

"Oh, it was all a dream," America realizes, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"It was a nightmare," England grumbles, scrambling back up onto the sofa.

"What did you dream about?" he asks.

"Uh...you first."

"Well, first my boss called and sent me on this mission-thing to Bermuda," and he was off, it was really a great dream, and he wishes that it could stay with him always because they really had a good time, and England really kicked some butt. He even said some pretty awesome things. "And, then you and me went back and fixed time, so everything would be as it is now again."

"You...how?" England stutters "How? That was my dream."

"Oh, really. Wow! That's awesome!" He grins.

He can tell that England is holding back, suppressing a grin of his own, but that's okay, because he knows England really likes him deep down, though he rarely says it.

"Hm, we better get all these DVDs cleaned up, so you aren't rushing around when you have to leave."

"And, I totally don't want to leave."

England smiles, genuinely. "I did have a nice time, Alfred. Thank you for sharing all your movies with me. You're a strange man. Messy and overindulgent, but you're kind."

"Thanks Arthur." He smiles back, and bends over to pick up and fold the bright red blanket that had fallen on the floor.

"Oh, look at that," he chuckles.

"Haha, it looks just like that cape you wore," his words fade as he sees the fastenings at the top, and the way the garment widens at its base. "No..." he whispers, exchanging a perplexed glace with England.

They both shake their heads and continue with the cleaning without further comment on their dreams, and a silent agreement never to bring it up again.

* * *

Well, this is the end. For good. Except the few chapters I really need to go back and edit. I hope you enjoyed it all. Did you expect the ending? Sorry that it was so abrupt.

I went back and added a master list of chapters with themes to chapter 1, which is newly edited, along with two different ways you could read and interpret the fic as a whole. It was really fun to write this, and quite a challenge. I've never written so much so quickly before. I'm usually too leisurely and disorganized with my writing time and inspiration.

If you enjoyed it or if you found anything amiss, let me know in a review.

I know what I'm going to be working on next. I need to finish edited "Bring Me Chocolate Biscuits, Please" and post it here. So, I'm going back to that project next. And, I'm going to try not working on anything new until I finish that.


End file.
